


Better to Die of Exhaustion Than Boredom

by Megg33k



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, M/M, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-20
Updated: 2013-06-20
Packaged: 2017-12-15 14:05:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/850419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Megg33k/pseuds/Megg33k
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is bored. When John insists he stops shooting at the wall, a mutually beneficial compromise is soon reached.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Better to Die of Exhaustion Than Boredom

**Author's Note:**

  * For [snogandagrope](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snogandagrope/gifts).



> I promised this to the perfect and lovely snogandagrope ages ago. I'm sorry it took so long, darling! <3
> 
> Also, thanks to my beta, Amber, who got about 15 minutes with this before I said, "Fuck it, I'm posting!"

It was a bright and sunny London afternoon when gunshots rang out from the parlour of 221B. And, where a lesser man may have startled at the sound, become worried or even panicked, John Watson, for all that he was, absolutely was _not_ a lesser man. Instead, he responded the way any Army doctor of any consulting detective would. He followed the sound with a sigh and merely arched an eyebrow as he entered the room.

“Bored!” shouted the detective, as if it needed saying.

“I gathered. Not enough death in England for you today?”

“None interesting enough to matter.” He fired again.

“Put the gun down, Sherlock.” John stepped closer.

“Or?” Another bullet hit the wall.

John stepped closer once again, now within arm’s reach of the outstretched limb holding the weapon. “Or nothing. Consider it a professional courtesy. I just don’t want the police called ‘round, as I’ve neither the time nor energy to deal with Anderson today. Do you?”

Sherlock’s wrist drooped. “No, but…”

“But?” John lowered Sherlock’s arm and set the gun aside.

“But I’m bored,” Sherlock replied sharply through clenched teeth.

John pinched the bridge of his nose, only basely registering that he was still standing much closer to Sherlock than was strictly necessary. “And what precisely would you like _me_ to do about it?”

“I don’t kn—yes! Yes!” Sherlock’s eyes widened as the standard I’ve-just-had-a-brilliant-idea look came over him. “I think I’d like for you to fellate me.”

And, in that moment, John’s brain was unable to process anything more than an incoherent string of unrelated syllables. “I… you… but… did… what…?”

 “I said, I think I’d like for you to fellate me.”

“I—I heard you… but why?”

“I’m tense, and I believe ejaculating, preferably against your palate, would bring me a great deal of relief. Would you mind?”

_“Would I mind?”_

Sherlock turned, gently fingering the button near John’s throat. His voice was deeper than usual and unexpectedly rough. “ _Would.You.Mind?_ ”

John swallowed hard around the lump in his throat, his answer already made clear to him by the tightening of his trousers. He wouldn’t mind, not one little bit. And, thusly, a terse shake of his head served as his response.

“Excellent. Now, where and how would you like me?”

 _In my mouth, immediately._ No, no, no. Inappropriate. He cleared his throat and motioned lazily toward the opposite side of the room. “Sofa.”

Sherlock studiously made his way to the sofa and took a seat, slouching down and widening his knees in preparation. “Have you done this before?”

John nodded, though hesitantly, unaccustomed to talking much about his more experimental days back in the Army. “Have you?”

“Giving or receiving?” Before John could answer, Sherlock continued, “Either way, the answer is yes.”

“Oh…” John couldn’t hide his obvious surprise. “I didn’t think you—”

“Yes, well, I do. Not often, but I do. And you’d do well not to mistake infrequency for inexperience.”

John sank to his knees between Sherlock’s thighs, gulping in a breath. As his gaze raked over the long, lean body before him, his brain was trapped in the space between ‘do want’ and ‘cannot move.’

“You do realise you’re allowed to touch me…”

A nod, it was the most he could manage. Uncustomarily timid fingertips grazed the soft grey cotton of the detective’s t-shirt, lifting it just enough to expose a pale stripe of skin, and when flesh met flesh for the first time— _Jesus Christ_ –that man burned hot.

Like all good things that come slowly and then suddenly, a timid touch turned to desirous kneading. Greedy palms massaged at the rippling of taut musculature, fingernails leaving irritated red streaks across milky skin. But hesitation returned when fingertips slipped beneath an elastic band, equally desperate and terrified to tug. Glasz eyes stared intently with quiet encouragement and a hint of need.

As fabric finally fell, giving way to flesh, an eager monolith stood tall and waiting, the peak glistening with anticipation. And, as if the newly revealed bell- _end_ were more of a bell _tone_ , John quickly devolved into little more than one of Pavlov’s dogs, salivating at the sight of his proffered reward.

John’s movements to make the initial point of contact were measured, savouring the first taste of his detective’s tang. It had been years, nigh a decade, since his last time, but he couldn’t remember it ever being quite so lovely in the past. Before his thoughts wandered far, they were reined in by the low rumble of an unexpected groan.

He’d not even thought to look at the man whose cock was now well-seated in his mouth, and what a loss that was. _My god!_ How long had he missed this vision of Sherlock, body loose and lids drooped? One hand moved toward John’s hair before being clenched and pulled back with a grimace. But no. That wouldn’t do. No, sir, it would not. Because John wanted that hand on his head, those violinist’s fingers threaded through his hair—praising, guiding, and perhaps even gripping.

He reluctantly— _oh, so reluctantly_ –pulled off with a pop and took that divested hand in his own. He coddled it and kissed it and damn well nuzzled it like an attention-starved cat reminding his master he sometimes required affection. When the nudging and nodding finally proved to be permission enough, those thin, elegant digits took hold of sandy blond locks, and their first confident tug turned a threatened whimper into an inadvertent moan. Sherlock’s lips instantly twitched into a smug grin.

Smug? Seriously? Of all the times Sherlock Holmes was allowed, nigh _expected_ , to be smug, whilst on the receiving end of a blow job was the one time he was _not_. So, as John’s lowered his head once again, hot breath dancing across already over-heated skin, he paused. And instead of wrapping moistened lips around engorged length, he pressed pointed tongue to puckered flesh.

“OH!” The surprised detective tensed briefly, and John suspected he couldn’t so much as even objectively define ‘smug’ anymore.

As Sherlock’s muscles relaxed, John marched on, while the hand still firmly clutching his hair provided constant, subtle encouragement. And, as he lapped and sucked, licked and fucked the oft ignored entrance, the keening from above grew louder as the breathing grew more ragged. But, when he reached for Sherlock’s eager yet neglected prick, the pressure on his skull was lifted as one hand moved to stop another.

“Something wrong?” he stopped to ask.

“Not… wrong… per se,” Sherlock panted. “It’s just… you’re rather… adept… in that area, and—” His breathing started to level. “—had you not stopped, I fear I may have ejaculated soon.”

“Fear? Wasn’t that the point?”

“Yes. However, my current desires are no longer in line with my original proposition.”

“So, you’d no longer like to ‘ejaculate, preferably against my palate’ then?” John mocked, complete with air quotes.

“You and I both know that’s not an accurate description of would have transpired had you continued uninterrupted. But, no, that’s no longer what I want. While I do still find the idea of ejaculating against your palate sexually stimulating, I think I’d rather you penetrated me… anally, of course.”

“I… _what?_ ”

“There’s no need to be coy, John. Your pupils dilated at the very mention of it. Your pulse—” Sherlock glanced at the spot where his fingertips met the pulse point on John’s wrist. “—is absolutely racing. And, judging by the amount of Cowper’s fluid darkening that patch of fabric on your trousers, I’d say you understood and are more than mildly interested in my offer. So, what do you say?”

“Uhh… there are—”

“Supplies in your bedroom? Yes, I’m aware. Would you prefer we retired there? Or would you rather retrieve them and return here?”

“Yeah.” John scrambled to his feet and looked toward the hallway, fidgeting nervously with his earlobe. “you can, uh, come with me… if you like.”

“Right.” Sherlock was on his feet, trousers and pants left in his wake.

They got as far as the landing before John stopped. “Sherlock, are you su—”

“I’ll only say this once, John, so I suggest you pay attention.” In the space of a breath, John’s back was against the wall, and Sherlock was pressed indecently close, his erection jutting into John’s hipbone. “I’m a grown man who is quite cognisant of the fact that he occasionally enjoys a certain type of pressure against his prostate, and you—” His palm was suddenly hot and firm against John’s trousers. “—will do quite nicely. But, if you prefer, I can retreat to my bedroom alone, where I have a fairly reasonable facsimile that I consider adequate in situations such as this.”

“You’ll be lucky if I don’t have you right here on these stairs, supplies be damned.”

“I urge you to try.”

Soon the growls of aggression gave way to gasps and moans, each swallowed up by an overly eager mouth, though not always the same one. Clothes were shed, and elbows were cracked. Fingers were licked and sucked and inserted, scissored and stretched until a mouthy detective demanded something more. And, when Sherlock sank into John’s lap, the hard bite of the wooden stair in John’s back was the furthest thing from his mind.

As the not so gentle bucking began, pelvis against pelvis, hips snapping in perfect time, gasps and moans became grunts and groans. Bones creaked, or maybe it was the stairs, but either way, they’d both regret their choice of location in a few hours. In that moment though, there was nothing else.

It didn’t matter that Mrs. Hudson could come home.

  _She **was** out, right?_

It didn’t matter that Mycroft could walk in.

_Why did he still have a key anyway?_

It didn’t matter that Lestrade might call.

_Wh— where the hell did we leave our phones?_

It didn’t matt—

_What are you doing? Head in the game, Watson!_

But head in the game meant cutting a long story short. John’s fingernails dug tiny crescents into Sherlock’s hips, as he came back ‘round just before he came screaming. Two simple syllables clung to his lips for dear life before being spat like an unintended curse. And he rode out his orgasm with a smile, knowing full well that turning his partner’s name profane was the greatest compliment he could give.

Then came a sudden sense of urgency, a deep and desperate need. John’s fingers slipped as he grasped at sweat-slicked skin, tugging and guiding Sherlock back into his mouth. All that mattered only moments before was now nothing more than a distant memory, his primal drive taken over by an unexpected, gut-wrenching desire.

Nimble fingers that once stalled now unapologetically grabbed at John’s hair, and his head thunked hard against a step. He could barely move, struggling to breathe, and he didn’t know how much he wanted that until there came a moment of hesitation to ensure he was alright. Though his reassurance was muffled by the cock shoved roughly down his throat, he nodded as best he could so as to resume as quickly as possible.

He’d never wanted to taste someone so badly, to feel their pubis pressed against his nose and their prick so deep he was nearly choking on it. He let his muscles go limp, silently encouraging Sherlock to use and abuse his mouth in any way he saw fit. And, when the heat weight of Sherlock’s release assaulted John’s throat, he felt more alive than he’d been in years.

No sooner had Sherlock pulled out, John dragged him down into an embarassingly needy kiss before struggling to his feet and retreating to the loo.

They spent a good while in silence before either of them spoke, and it was John who first found his voice. “So…” He cleared his throat. “Did, uh, that satisfy your… needs?”

“Quite. I suppose I should thank you.”

“Hardly. It was far from an imposition.”

Sherlock smirked. “I… was surprised to find out how much I enjoyed tasting my own ejaculate in your mouth. If you wouldn’t be opposed, at some point in the future—”

“Yeah, I think it’s fair to say I wouldn’t be opposed. Can I ask you a question, though?”

“Hm?”

“Were you really bored? Or was that simply the most… Sherlocky way you could come up with to seduce me?”

A feigned gasp. “The cheek of you to ask such a thing. Surely it could be both, could it not?”

“Yeah, Sherlock. Both. Both is good.”

**Author's Note:**

> I hope it was worth the wait!
> 
> Comments, as always, encouraged.
> 
> P.S. I wanted them to have safe sex, but they fucking well refused. Blame them, not me.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover for Better to Die of Exhaustion Than Boredom](https://archiveofourown.org/works/873830) by [moonblossom graphics (moonblossom)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonblossom/pseuds/moonblossom%20graphics)




End file.
